The no-holds-barred tale of a Chicago-based thirty-something living the so-called dream

The Real World

I’d left off before as we were about to enter a guacamole-induced coma while waiting for the rest of the group to get to the house. Need a recap? Check out The Real World: Puerto Vallarta. Needless to say, the other six arrived and were just as impressed with our new crib as we were. After a quick switch of bedrooms, we were all settled in and ready to hit up the convenience store and stock up on the essentials: bread, coffee, and booze.

There was only one thing standing between us and the store: a hill followed by a rope bridge guarded by an alligator.

Pretty ominous, right? But come, on…it’s just a hill. It’s nothing our parents hadn’t probably walked uphill both ways in the snow to get to school when they were our age, right?

Wrong.

This hill would prove to be either the devil or the world’s best lower body workout. Perhaps both. This hill would go on to claim more breath, skin, and bitching than anything else any of us had probably ever – and will probably ever will – experienced in our young adult lives. I equate conquering this hill to giving birth. Continue reading →

Once again, I’ve been pretty much MIA. Go figure, right? It’s for good reason though because I was on vacation, and for the two weeks since I’ve been back I’ve been attempting to play catch-up at the office. You never realize just how many emails you get each day until you take six days plus a weekend off with no access to company email/voicemail. But yes, I know you find it hard to believe, but even I need a well-deserved break sometimes. So on that note, I’m going to also take a break from writing about things that annoy me and weave you the tale (or more appropriately a poncho) of my recent friendcation to Mexico. I’m sure those of you who know me in person are like “Oh god, we have to hear about Mexico AGAIN?! Can’t you just shut up and move there already?” but I don’t care. This isn’t about you. Deal with it.

So here we are last summer when a friend asked me what I was doing in February. Funny, right? Half the time I don’t even know what I’m doing for dinner. So naturally, the minute he said “We’re looking at getting a group of friends together and booking a house in Puerto Vallarta for a week, you in?” Of course I was all in. I mean, you’d have to be crazy to say no to a week away from the frigid tundra otherwise known as Chicago in the winter.

Fast forward six months and the daily photo countdown kicks off on Facebook.

28 days…

23 days…

12 days. ..

…and and all the way on down until one day left. I’m sure every single one of our friends (of all eight of us going) were sufficiently annoyed by this point and probably relieved that we’d be finally ending the daily countdown of photos showcasing the sand, palm trees, ocean, and all the other things that go along with a vacation on the beach that we’d be experiencing and they wouldn’t. Did we care though? Not in the least. So long, suckers. My passport was ready in a feisty yellow leather case (with orange leather lining). My rainbow Lacoste beach towel was packed inside my brand new (white) suitcase that was filled to the brim with tank tops, flip flops, shorts, and the obligatory blow dryer just in case there wasn’t one where we were staying. My weave was freshly cut, and my brows and back waxed (just to be proactive/paranoid). The day had come, and it was time for this homo to blow this popsicle stand and make a beeline to paradise for a week. Hasta la vista. Continue reading →

The modern misadventures of a twentysomething transplant from Nebraska, trying to navigate Chicago. Many gays love meddling with my life, for better and for worse. Fortunately, I'm a less horse-faced version of Carrie Bradshaw, that, unfortunately, never gets any action.